


touch me ‘till the world makes sense

by VerdantMoth



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 12:43:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17601593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth





	touch me ‘till the world makes sense

It’s not until the third time he turns 18 that things really change, that Tony notices. Standing in the mall, at 5.42 in the afternoon, everything suddenly goes muted. Colors fade and the sounds come from behind cotton walls, and the soft cashmere sweater he wears is nothing against his skin. 

Tony’s stomach lurches with the excitement of  _ there is someone for me out there _ , and the sinking horror as he realizes,  _ they've only just been born _ . And he hates himself, a little, for the ache behind his breastbone. Because damned if the universe it’s not cruel and vindictive, making him wait so long. 

Most of his friends are still 18, with the exception of Clint who grew up with his soulmate, born on the same day as him, and never experienced the wait, and Steve who knew Bucky and Peggy  _ before _ he turned 18 but due to birthday discrepancies, was blind for a whole two weeks. Peggy was the lucky one there, the last to turn 18. But the confusion of Bucky getting feeling in one arm and Steve only regaining his sight in one eye had made for an interesting ten days. He thinks he’s lucky, in some ways, that all of his senses are dulled, instead of one completely shutting down on him.

Bruce is still furious his taste buds are basically nonexistent, but he loves shocking strangers as he puts increasingly spicer and disgusting things in his mouth. Tony has his bets that Nat is the next of the group to never experience the sensation issues, but he keeps that tidbit to himself. They’ll know in a year and a half anyway. 

But still, Tony has to sit at the edge of the water fountain and  _ process _ . The water, normally cool and slick feeling, feels about the same as his sweater and a small part of Tony almost cries. 

+

In some ways, it’s nice, the weird muted world Tony is trapped in. Music is never too loud, and the weather doesn’t really phase him. His mother’s perfume and his father’s cologne never suffocate him in the back of the limos. He does miss it, sometimes, the smell of jasmine and sander wood. The chill of the night air and the taste of pizza and music blasting too loud in his ears. 

He really feels for his soulmate, though. And for the life they’ll live always… well, not quite right. If they’re lucky, maybe, they’ll be one of those euphoria kids, where senses are heightened in the most pleasant of ways. Although, rumor has it the sudden dampening can be like a sudden drug withdrawal for those. So maybe not.

For the most part, he doesn’t think about his soulmate. 18 years is a long time to dream, to hope, and Tony… he remembers Strange, the senior who never got to meet his soulmate. 

Strange was four years older and gifted in every sense of the word. He also suffered a cruel hand, when he turned 18 and lost the use of his hands. For a while, he held out the hope he’d regain them in a few years or so. And then one morning he’d woken up in a 26 year old body with hands that would never function again. 

Tony doesn’t know exactly what happened to him, after he disappeared in the Asian mountains. But Tony isn’t holding his breath that he’ll ever feel the world right again. He’s 18, and he has been for a few years, and he’s got several more to go.

+

For the most part, it doesn’t take Tony long to forget  _ before _ . He never forgets not being permanently 18, but the feeling of the sun on his skin, or the breeze carrying the smell of fried heart attacks become as real as dreams to him. 

He still buys cashmere sweaters, if only because it’s the closest to feeling something on his skin he gets, but mostly he just buys what looks nice. Sometimes, when he’s at the mall or browsing the grocery store, he’ll get these flickers. A smell he thinks is citrus, or the lights over head suddenly brightening or the red of his shirt screaming at him. 

Laughter that sounds like it’s right around the corner. 

He chases it, once, the laughter. Bubbly and high, tugging at his spine. But as soon as he’s heard it, the sounds vanished and everything is dull again. Once, just once, right before he should have turned 22, he’d seen a boy. A beautiful, fat cheeked, covered in chocolate, with curly hair and eyes to matched, little thing chasing after a pretty woman. 

Bile burns in his throat, the strongest sensation he’d had in a long time, and something he doesn’t want to explore. 

He stops chasing, after that. Instead he holds his breath when the world flickers and waits for it to settle. 

+

Mostly being forever 18 is nice. He doesn’t worry about body aches or grey hair or wrinkles. He eats what he wants, when he wants, and never wakes up with a hangover. 

But his friends are aging and employers just won’t take him serious and it’s so damn hard to enter a bar when you look 18 and you’re trying to say you’re 24. 

Large age gaps aren’t entirely unheard of; there are rumors of a boy in England who has been 18 since like, medieval times. That one’s a little shady, because he claims he’s waiting on a king, but there are people who wait five and seven and ten years. Tony doesn’t recall anyone more than, but he’s sure it happens. It has to happen. 

But he’s 24, and noticing the fine lines around Steve’s eyes and the grey in Clint’s beard. Peggy’s face has softened and Bruce’s everything hasn’t. 

Nat looks at him with pity, when she places a hand over his and catches him studying it. He’s not sure how to explain it but her hand just looks older. Finer, more delicate, none of the youthful blubber hiding her bones. 

It’s not that he wants to work about prune juice or joint pain. But when another tech-start up offers him an internship instead of an office and he gets kicked out of a bar celebrating Peggy’s pregnancy… he sort of hates his soulmate. No amount of binge drinking without repercussions makes it tolerable. 

Especially since the whiskey barely even burns down his throat. 

+

He starts smoking when he is supposed to turn 30. His soulmate should be about ten, and since his body is still frozen, it seems like the kid is doing fine. A few years ago, Tony woke up with a crushing sadness; the kind that tasted like metal against his molars and pinned him to the bed for days.

He’d thought perhaps his soulmate was dying. That some fluke was letting him know, before he woke up old and achy. But he never had, and his world stayed soft and quiet, and he sort of wonders what happened. He never looks and he never asks. 

But he never forgets. 

He sees his soulmate, when he standing outside a coffee shop inhaling smoke like is air, just to taste the ash and feel the heat, (and wouldn’t you know cigarettes are the one thing he experiences completely), and the kid stops and stares at him.

His boy, this creature born too late but meant just for him, stares with the kind of judgment only a ten year old can. 

He can’t see the the earth-toned eyes behind the heavy shades, but even so, he knows them. His boy is wearing machinist grade earmuffs and an outfit made of well-worn cotton hanging off his shoulder, in the palest shade of grey. For a moment, just one second, Tony can hear the breeze and feel the sun and smell the stench of smoke on his skin. His jeans scrape against his legs and his mouth taste like stale alcohol and  _ shit, he really needs to brush his teeth.  _

He sees the reaction in his boy: the shades slipping down his nose as he takes in the world, the shock of the sudden silence Tony remembers.  The boy reaches for Tony’s hand, the smallest flinch of his tiny wrist, before everything snaps back. The kid’s wet-wood eyes water and he shoves the glasses back up his nose and tucks his hand back into his pocket.

Tony licks his teeth, trying to remember the gritty feel and watches as a woman, a little older than he thinks she should be, rugs the kid away. 

She looks over her shoulders as the kid pushes through the door, and the sympathy in her eyes, the pain of recognition, is ice cold where Tony’s heart once beat. 

+

James Barnes and Sarah Rogers are six and nine respectively, when they start asking asking questions. Peggy is pregnant with their third, (and final she swears) kid and they don’t know who the father is and they don’t want to know. 

But Sarah is pulling at Tony’s jaw, fingers searching for a beard like her fathers’ and she’s frowning intensely. “You never look different, Uncle Tony. Why isn’t your face wrinkly yet?”

James says, “You a vampire Uncle Tony?” 

Sarah bats him away. “Don’t be dumb, he doesn’t drink blood. He’s obviously an alien.”

They wander off to fight each other, arguing supernatural creatures and Tony judges their parents, hard. But a part of him is relieved they don’t push. It’s not that they don’t know about soulmates yet, can’t really live without knowing unless you're alone on an island, but it’s not the central focus of their lives 

The again, they have three parents so things for them have always been different. 

“You all have to stop filling their heads with fantasy stories,” Tony complains. “Sarah tried to burn me with silver and James won’t let me near a cross.”

Bucky laughs at him. “Don’t see why that would bother you, since you’ve not been to church since you were fifteen.”

Tony flicks him off.

+

He’s 35 and hiding behind another man’s face on a screen. His company is thriving, the little start up he began a decade ago having exploded in ways no one expected. It helps, he thinks, how much time he had to tinker in his lab. 

No honey to come home to, no reasonable hours limiting him. It would be nice, to be in the boardroom, arguing himself instead over a Bluetooth, but mostly he’s bored and lonely. It gets harder and harder to hangout with his old friends. 

Not because he can’t relate; (it’s so damn hard to file taxes when you’re physically 18. Makes explaining insurance and such pretty difficult.) but because he… can’t relate. Bruce has started swearing glasses and Clint frequently smells of menthol rubs, and they’re figuring out highschool and puberty and what goods make their stomachs ache and and which exercises they just can’t do anymore. 

Yesterday, Steve sat at lunch bemoaning a weird spot on his thigh that Bucky swore was just an ingrown hair and Peggy fretted might be cancer. Yesterday, Tony bought a new acne cream and looked for hairs on his chest, on his jaw. 

He drank all of them under the table, but there was no joy in it. Peggy and Nat both usually quit after a single glass of wine, and Bucky fucking crows about  _ savoring  _ the undertones of whatever top shelf liquor he’s drinking. 

He smokes still, too keep his hands and mouth busy when they’re at a concert where he’s the youngest and all the couples are cozying up. He smoke, and he remembers wet-wood eyes judging him and he isn’t sure if the burn in his chest is nicotine or shame.

He’ll quit in three years, he swears. 

+

He gets sick, really sick six months after he turns 36. Turns out his body might be 18, but some of his organs remember how old they should be. The doctors tell him no more everclear shots, no more deep fried everything’s, no more late nights and early mornings and monsters-instead-of-meals. They technically ban cigarettes but he mostly doesn’t hear that one. 

The Doctor who gently advise Tony  _ stop  _ slamming into rock walls has scarred hands and an understanding in his eyes like a woman with grey hair holding a ten year old’s hand. 

“How much longer?” He asks. 

And Tony recognizes Strange, long in the face and plump lipped even amongst the wrinkles and grey, “A year and a half, maybe,” he answers. It’s a heavy confession, one he’s never told anyone else. 

He’s not sure people realize he’s been counting down to the minute, the moment his soulmate is legal. He’s not sure senses usually shift the moment they’re born. If he remembers right, Steve woke up blind the next day and Bruce didn’t realize anything was off until he was eating nuclear wings and his mouth wasn’t burning. 

“There’s hope then,” Strange answers, crooked fingers trembling. Tony has a lot of questions, more than he thinks fit inside his mouth, but there’s a sadness about Strange that keeps him quiet.

Strange sends Tony away with nicotine patches and no hope in his eyes.

+

Tony wakes up in his 38th birthday and counts the weeks and months on his fingers. Four more months and 7 hours and 42 minutes. 

He’s never been this afraid, before. 

The thing about soulmates is, they’re meant for you. But that doesn’t mean you can’t kiss other mouths. And Tony? 

Tony likes kissing other mouths. He keeps it quiet, a secret even his friends don’t know. Sometimes, it’s others whose soulmates are too young. Thor, the Australian he found in a bar, who kissed like a demand and fucked like a caress. 

Thor, who saw sound and heard color and wept when he confessed he knew exactly who his soulmate was, and that he feared the universe had made a mistake. 

He’d handed Tony a picture of a dark haired, pale skinned, green eyed little nymph of about 12. Tony had recognized the man standing next to the kid, and his heart cracked a little.

He’d kept Thor, or maybe Thor had kept him, for six years. 

And then Pepper. God, she’d been beautiful, and for a long time Tony had wondered if maybe they could make it work. Stay 18 and together forever, reckless in land rovers and hotel rooms, him watching her point out colors he couldn’t see, couldn’t even imagine. 

But she’d woke up next to him one morning, gasping at the sensation of silk on her skin, and with a single grey strand tucked into her bangs. She’d cried when she kissed him, had confessed she’d imagined a world where they stayed happy. But no one really turns down a chance with destiny. 

The only one he hadn’t really regretted had nothing to do with his lover, but with the pain of waking up to a man in his 30’s, belly and all, begging the universe to take the noise back,  _ don’t let it be true.  _ He’s not sure Quill ever recovered. 

+

The day the world burst, he’s back in the mall, standing by the fountain. It’s not serendipitous or happenstance.

Tony took the random Thursday off just so he could be here. He’s dressed casual, basketball shorts and a tank top, because he’s afraid of how it’ll feel. 

The seconds are ticking down on his watch; and he’s chewing his lip. He wants to smoke, wants to break the seal on the menthols in his pocket, but he swore if things worked out he’d chuck the packet into the trash. 

And then, like a sudden inhale the first day of winter, his skin is cool and damp. He looks up, watching the fine mist of an old fountain coat the hairs on his arm. There’s a lot of noise, almost overwhelming. Kids laughing and water dripping and machines clinking. Everything is so beautiful, the rusted gates on the closed shop, the puke-green tile on the floor, the obnoxious red of his shorts. 

He’s not fond of the August heat, stifling against his skin, but he really likes the silk of his shorts. His mouth taste faintly if smoke, but mostly the cinnamon of his toothpaste. 

He smells like sandalwood and jasmine and it’s not quite as pleasant as he imagined it would be, but he inhales deeply, loving it. 

Someone taps his shoulder, heavy and practically audible, and Tony whirls around.

There’s a boy in front of him, rosy cheeked and curly haired. “You’re kind of an asshole,” the boy says. For exactly two heartbreaks and an exhale Tony is distracted by the beautiful tenor voice. 

And then, “Ex-fucking-scuse me?” Tony demands.

The kid slides his shades down his nose and blinks at Tony. He has brown eyes, just like Tony remembers. The kind of brown with umber tones and gold flecks he’s never seen in eyes before. He pulls of the ridiculous ear muffs he has on, and peels of a soft looking jacket in a faded blue. “1,” the boy says, holding up a narrow finger, “you made my life pretty unbearable dude. 2,” another slender digit, “ you’re a smoker. I can see the pack in your pocket. 3, I know you’ve seen me around and you never bothered to speak to me. And 4, you made me wait a while.” 

Tony narrows his eyes. “Listen here you little runt. That’s a contingency pack in my pocket and I have no control over how shitty your life has been.  But if you’ve seen me around it means you could just as easily have approached me. And let me tell you a thing or two about waiting. Fuck, kid, you think you know waiting?” Tony is really gearing himself up to rage, when the kid snorts out a laugh. Tony pauses and looks at him, and pale pink lips tilt a little. Tilt right up into a grin, and then he’s being laughed at. And doesn’t that just burn, waiting 18 years to be laughed at. 

But the kid hold out a fine and and Tony hesitantly takes it. He’s surprised by the calluses on the palm. “Hi. I’m Peter, Peter Parker. I turned 18 about 5 minutes ago and when I saw you standing here the world didn’t feel like too much anymore, so I guess that means you’re mine.”

Tony doesn’t quite smile at him, but his cheeks do twitch. “Tony Stark. I’ve been wandering through a bleach-fade world for 18 years lookin for you kid.”

+

Tony doesn’t wait to introduce Peter to his friends. There are a ton of smiles and hugs and backslaps, but also tears. More than he expected. 

He’d always known  _ why  _ soulmates pause at 18. So they could grow together, share experiences and not worry about losing each other too soon.

But he’d never realized what it would mean for him to fit himself into Peter’s world. Going back to college, putting his career on hold. Making friends with Peter’s people. 

If Tony had felt out of place the older his friends had gotten, Peter must feel absolutely foreign in conversations about retirement and college funds and colonoscopies. 

Tony is going back to college, with his best friend’s daughter and a boy he’s half watched grow up, and it changes things. It’s hard to know if he’s supposed to tell Peggy and Steve and Bucky what Sarah does with kids in her dorms and it’s hard to go downtown with Peter and not want limit his drinking.

It’s nice though, actually tasting the alcohol, and he hates telling Bucky he’s right about brands. But Tony fits himself back into the college scene and even though he has a job waiting for him, a whole company funding both his and Peter’s schooling, this time around it  _ fits. _ Like this was when he was supposed to go, all along. 

Mostly though, he fucking loves being around Peter. No one had ever told him that yeah, the world rights itself when you finally, officially meet your soulmate at 18, but it’s never truly  _ right  _ except in their presence. 

It’s possibly harder for Peter, who has to live with bright lights and tinny sounds and sensitive skin, but it’s dull and distant for Tony. Everything just a little pale, a little muffled, a little… empty. 

He wonders if that’s why he almost never sees Peggy or Steve or Bucky alone, why Nat and Bruce are joined at the hip.

Tony sometimes wonders if Peter regrets he didn’t wait, the way Peter did. When he has Peter spread out on silk sheets, pale skin vibrant against maroon bedding, when he licks down his chest, his stomach, tasting soap and salt and boy, he asks, “Are you sorry?”

And Peter, legs parted and hips canting as Tony opens him with two fingers, looks at him with eyes that judge. “Don’t have serious conversations during sexy times, old man.” 

Tony bites his hip, hard, and adds a third finger. He isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to explain the difference between this sensation and before. He’s not even sure he really understands it himself. But Peter is a warm heat around his digits, slick but firm but not in the pliable way skin and assholes are. He rest a hand in Tony’s hair, and the heavy heat is soothing. He cries, high whines and low, guttural moans that reverberate in Tony’s skull. He answers Tony then, breathy and desperate as he says “I could never be sorry about you, about anything.”

Sometimes it’s too much. When he finally breeches Peter, when he is buried to the hilt and his skins on fire and his insides are over heating and Peter is clenching around him, babbling and scraping his nails over Tony’s chest. When Peter is damp with sweat and tears and ore-come,  and it’s like every nerve ending on Tony’s body is touching and being touched.

He thinks he might explode with it, even as he buries his nose in Peter’s neck and inhales the strange aroma of soap and exertion and  _ Peter _ .

Tony doesn’t weep in those moments, when he finally cries out and spilled hot and needy inside of Peter. He doesn’t sob as Peter’s own release splatters his belly and his boy digs nails and heels into his skin. He doesn’t cry, wrapped beneath soft blankets and around warm skin.  

But it’s a damn close thing. 

+

He does break down the first morning he wakes up and sees the grey in his ears, at his temples. Peter kisses the lines around his eyes, strokes his back in that  hesitant, reverent way Peter has always touched him. 

Tony doesn’t think Peter gets it, exactly, the relief streaming over his cheeks. But he kisses Tony and rocks him and takes him to bed, where he calls him _beautiful_ and _amazing_ and _all mine._


End file.
